Eggs and Clocks
by Bodmin
Summary: S5E6: I wondered what was going on in Louisa's and Martin's head during the final scenes of this episode. Here is what I came up with.


Disclaimer: Doc Martin is the property of Buffalo Pictures.

**Eggs**

What am I doing here?

This horrid egg. I stare down at it and….oh, the fish smells wonderful….

_Stop it! _

He can't have his ways all the time. If he just weren't such a pigheaded…egghead!

Just look at him! He doesn't even know what's wrong. He doesn't even know _something's _wrong at all. He is cool as a cucumber.

Even a cucumber would be better than this ghastly egg. '_It's not breakfast, Louisa.'_ Right, great, I do know that. I just really didn't fancy cooking. I did have a rotten day at school – and you know that darn well.

How long will this be going on? When was the last time I had fun – real fun? About four weeks ago, when I was having an evening out.

You can't have fun with him. _He _can't have fun.

Just look at his childhood photos. He's _never_ had fun!

How long can you go on like this? You're too young for this – being stuck in this…this…marriage of convenience. Just that you are not married – luckily. He doesn't even have the slightest interest in you anymore. Martin, any other man would have tried _something _while we were staying under the same roof, in the same bed. He treats me like…well…like a hat stand!

Before James was born, even during the birth, he looked at me with that expression of his. Gone. He isn't interested at all. If he looks at anyone at all, it's at James.

And now he is planning to send him off to some horrid Victorian institution – to make him an emotional cripple just like him. To shape him just like him! I will never allow that.

I don't want a photo of my child looking sadly at the camera, briefcase in hand, dressed in a suit, like a miniature business man, waiting for the taxi to get him to the station to catch the bus to some stuffy old place. I want him to run around in our informal school uniform, fooling around with his mates – and if he has to lick the floor at some point to be part of it, then so be it. It won't kill him.

James shall have a happy childhood.

But how? Just look at us! We're making each other miserable. _He _is making me miserable. We are walking around each other on eggshells.

He's always picking on me – he is better organised, he cares better for our son, he earns the money, he has the more important job, he is ever so patient. If only he had shouted at me when I broke his Venetian glass tumbler! At least it would have shown that he is taking me seriously. But no! He treats me like a raw egg! Like some mental who is not to be made upset. He has to make all of our plans, as I cannot be trusted to make any decisions.

He's such an arrogant, chauvinistic arse!

I feel I have to justify everything I do. I can't even eat a digestive biscuit without him making sneering remarks. Chill out, Martin! One biscuit won't give me a heart attack!

_Pull yourself together!_

You're drowning…drowning in sadness…a sea of sadness…_his_ sea of sadness.

Get out of here, while you still can. He's dragging you down with him. You can't save him. He drowned ages ago.

Just think of that sad little face on all of the pictures. No, better not. He was a lost cause even then. It's not that he has forgotten how to be happy, he never ever was!

Gosh, there is not one normal emotion in this…this …man!

Just look at him! He has no idea what's wrong. He looks cautious. He had a very similar expression during our first dinner here at his house, just a few days after we first ..were …engaged.

He'd cooked for us then, too. Then I thought it was quite sweet, even when he was a bit peculiar about the salt. But it's not just the cooking. He keeps on living his life as normal – he does everything how he pleases.

When I see him tidying up after me, I could scream! If he'd just say something, and not just enduring my presence – just as you would treat a child or someone mentally ill, who can't possibly be responsible for his deeds.

I'm a grown woman, man! I'm Portwenn's head teacher! People do respect me!

That's why you want me down in London with you, isn't it? Then I'm _Mrs. Ellingham, surgeon's wife_. You'd like that, bastard!

I am a teacher, and if you think James should be at home with a parent, then stay home yourself!

Or better not. What would James learn from him? If he learns his manners from his father, then we're all lost. Besides, what a sad childhood would that be, being with a grumbler like him.

How could you _dare_ to set a date for _our_ son's christening without mentioning a word? Try at least to talk to me. You act as if I wasn't there!

You're such a bad egg. Bastard!

Oops, my spoon practically stabbed the egg and Martin is looking over.

"This isn't how it's supposed to be." I hear myself saying.

What? I can't believe it? Did he really just ask if the _egg_ was too runny? Martin, I _am _a human being! Can't you see that there's something wrong? Not with the egg? With _us_?

You really don't see it, do you? You think if the daily routine is running smoothly, then there is nothing more to be done. _Your_ daily routine. You don't even _care_ how my day was, do you?

Martin, people do have feelings! _Normal _people, that is. Do I really have to spell it out for him?

"Not the egg. You and me."

Right. The first step is done. Go all the way now, girl. Go ahead, you can do it. You can't avoid the conflict forever. And you can't make an omelette without breaking eggs. Better do it quickly and painful, than slowly and….painful.

"There should be something we both agree on. Where James might go to school, what day he's gonna get christened, something? But there's nothing. You know?"

I really can't see that he is taking me seriously if he makes all the important decisions all by himself. Before James was born, I thought it would be nice if Martin would be involved a bit more. I egged him on to get involved with our son. But he doesn't do _a bit more_. Either he is not involved at all and leaves you completely on your own, or he is in charge completely and no one else has a say in it. This isn't going to work, Martin. I've had enough!

"We don't even want to share the same meal?"

He really doesn't get the point, does he? What the hell does he mean '_I had an egg at breakfast.'_ Who cares, Martin? Millions of Britons have!

"Martin, be quiet, please? This is not about eggs!"

I won't back out, not this time. This it too important. This can't go on.

"This is how it always goin' to be, isn't it? You and me? You being…you… and me…being…you know?"

Ruth had been right. People don't change. Not when they have been the same all their lives. What four-and-a-half decades of life couldn't fix certainly won't rectify itself miraculously now. There would have been hope if he had at least smiled once – but I see the sour man before me and he blends perfectly with the seven-year old boy of his childhood-photos. He is Martin Ellingham, through and through.

And I won't put up with it any longer.

"I just can't do this anymore."

He really has the nerve to ask what I mean. I really thought I'd made myself clear. I can't be any clearer about it. And don't you dare look at me like a beaten puppy. I have to get out of here. Quick!

"I'm sorry."

**Clocks**

My grandfather's clock. How long have I wanted to have it, hold it, look what's inside – make it work again? I still can remember seeing it in his study. My eyes were drawn to it immediately. I was intrigued by the mixture of cold, precise mechanics and the colourful, floral pattern. Yes, floral pattern can be intriguing – like Louisa's dress the other week, I don't think I've seen that before on her.

_Man, concentrate. This is about the clock._

For years I wished with all my heart to get my hands on this clock. I had meddled with clocks since I was a kid, pre-prep. I always found it satisfying when the hands were moving again, and all the tiny bits and pieces, perfectly adjusted so that everything works together.

Now that I've opened the lid, the first damage is obvious – the pendulum is loose. It should be possible to fix this, but I suppose there will be more damage under the surface. Before I can examine it, I will have to unwind it to take the tension off the mainspring. If the mainspring has too much tension and you handle it, it can release the tension and you can be hurt. It can be quite nasty. I even heard of clockmakers who have lost the tip of their fingers this way.

I can't risk that. In a few weeks I'm expected to perform surgery again. I will be in London. Louisa will not come with me. Not now. I will have a large flat. Too large for one person. Louisa tends to leave chaos behind, but she would have to try hard to clutter up that London flat.

Well, she won't even see it. Not pristine white, nor yellow, nor any other colour.

No one to wish "Good morning" to, no one to cook for. No one.

_Man, concentrate on the clock._

So before I can try to fix it, I have to take the tension out of the system. It's good that Ruth found the key.

If it would just be this easy to get the tension out of everything, a key to every wound up mainspring.

Obviously I did wind up Louisa the wrong way. There was a tension which was almost palpable. If I just had the key to how to fix it.

I roll my bag with the clockmaker's tools out. Little tiny, shiny tools in best condition, fit to handle even the most minuscule parts with precision.

I have no tools to fix Louisa. I thought that I really did well the last couple of weeks. I bit my tongue, even when it was hard at times. The toughest one was her horrible mother messing around in my kitchen. I was proud that I tolerated her for Louisa's sake. The only time I lost my temper with her, I could cover it up, luckily, pretending to shout at the dog.

There was this other moment, when I woke up to the sound of shattering glass. The Venetian tumbler was really an extraordinary work of craftsmanship. I had bought it during a conference in Venice. I had extended the stay for a weekend to do some sightseeing and found this glassblower. I saw him making the tumbler. It was quite interesting to see the tricks of the trade.

When I saw it shattered I was close to loosing my temper, but then my eyes saw something more precious, something she had given me – and James is worth so much more than all the Venetian glass tumblers in this entire world.

James.

It's the first night in his short life that I'm not around. I hope Louisa's mother won't drug him again. It twists my stomach to think that I can't be there – to protect him.

To think that eight weeks ago I was prepared to go off and leave Louisa to bring him up alone.

Now she chooses to.

I don't know how Louisa will handle that. Her irresponsible mother won't be much of a help. At least I tried to be, even though changing nappies is not really my favourite task. To feed him and burp him is better. To feel his tiny head against my shoulder. Feeling him is great, in general.

When did he win me over? I think it was in the hospital, while Louisa was examined. I turned away to give her some privacy and held him. His fingers puzzled me most. He was playing with my fingers, and I couldn't help but squeeze his tiny fingers with mine.

I'd never understood parental instincts before. That moment I understood.

My favourite time during the last weeks, was Louisa's night out I suppose. It was nice reading that article to him. It was a very informative publication. He didn't seem bored, so I suppose it was alright.

James seems to have settled finally, he didn't wail as much last week. Maybe he's starting to feel at home.

Now he has to learn to feel at home at Louisa's cottage.

Will she allow me to see my son? Legally, I hardly have any rights. Visiting, yes, but maybe once a month.

I want more.

I want to see when he starts to crawl. I want to see when he sits by himself. I want to hear his first words.

I never thought I would feel this way. Joan would be happy.

But I won't have any of this. Louisa surely doesn't want me to be around.

I wonder how she'll manage, all by herself. She seemed a bit stressed, and the first day of school didn't do her any good.

I really couldn't baby-sit for James. I had appointments. I mean, when she had that meeting, I opened surgery only for the afternoon. I could have done so again, but then she should have told me earlier, so that I could organise the time schedule accordingly.

I really don't mind to adjust my working hours, but then she should at least say something.

I can't understand her. Her job seems more important to her than our son. I simply can't get it how she prefers to see to a bunch of other children, and to leave our precious boy under the care of that irresponsible woman.

If Joan was still here, she'd look after him.

Then again, Louisa explodes when I want him to get the best education possible. At least, he would be in capable hands. If we're in London, and we can try that school in Kent Aunt Ruth talked about, he can easily come home for the weekends. If she and I are working all week, we won't see him much anyhow. So I don't know what all the fuss is about.

Now I don't have a say at all anymore.

Louisa is so lax in so many ways. We really should be a good example for James, especially now when he is still so young and will drink in everything. I can't stand the thought of him being influenced by this irresponsible, smoking, selfish woman. What will he learn?

I should go over to get him out of there. I owe that to him. But I think Louisa would never forgive me if I did.

I want him with me.

I want her.

It was so weird to have her under the same roof, in the same bed, and having to hold back. I didn't want to push her. I know she doesn't want me in _that_ way. I respect that. I will always treat her with respect. I know she just put up with me because of James.

I tried to make life a bit easier for her. Give her some space. Try to take some of the tasks off her. She didn't seem to be too keen to cook, and I don't mind. I've done so for all of my life.

When I tried to talk to her about getting James registered at a good prep school, she didn't seem too keen to talk it over. So I didn't bother her with the less important matter of the christening.

Seems that I was wrong there. She seemed upset about it. I don't know why. At least I managed to stay calm – mostly. I think this is some progress. At least I can keep my temper with her.

And then this nonsense about being a _kept woman_. As if anyone could ever keep her. She's too independent for that. And I'm the last man to do it. I just want to be there for her.

But I don't know what she wants. I don't even know if she knows what she wants.

_Stop this nonsense, Ellingham! The clock!_

Yes. The clock. I always wanted to see the inside of this clock. Now I can. Who would have thought that Joan had had it for all of these years? But the barn is not the right place for such a clock. The humidity and temperature change has damaged the wood, and the dampness makes the metallic parts rusty. Now I am free to unscrew the lid and fix the inside.

_So why aren't you doing it?_

Suddenly, I really don't care about this clock. Strange. For years I could think of no greater pleasure than to open this lid. Once, when I was about nine, I managed to sneak into grandfather's study and already had my hands on the clock – when my father turned up. Of course I got the punishment I deserved, but it was worth it, because I _almost_ managed to get the clock.

Now it's lying in front of me and I just have to remove the face and I can fix it. It would be an interesting task, and it's a long time since I repaired my last clock. I should be looking forward to it.

Slowly I roll up the bag with the tools.

Something has changed. The clock doesn't hold any interest for me. Not now. Something has changed. Something. Or can I even dare to think that….I?

Louisa seemed to be horrified that our life would always be like this. I don't know what would be wrong about that. I would like that.

Not that there isn't anything more that I dream of, but I was quite happy about the turns my life has taken the last couple of weeks.

Life could be worse – and has been.

Louisa was not happy. I don't know why. She seems to think that I will never change. Doesn't she see that I'm far from being the man I was only eight weeks ago?

This clock proves it. Things have changed.

I look down at the clock.

I shudder.

The face of the clock is mocking me - five minutes to midnight.

Can it be that it isn't too late, just yet?

_- The end -_

_Thanks for reading  
><em>


End file.
